


Nostos Merle

by Nyanoka



Series: Dove Descending [4]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pokemon, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Changing Tenses, Cock & Ball Torture, Conversations, Creampie, Cultural Differences, Cum Eating, Cum Inflation, Cunnilingus, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Fingering, Fisting, Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Hemipenes, Intersex Character, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, Kissing, Large Cock, M/M, Melancholy, Mild Cock & Ball Torture, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Human Genitalia, Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, Painplay, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sirens, Size Difference, Squirting, Stomach Bulge, Teasing, Teratophilia, Urethral Play, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Xenia - Freeform, Xenophilia, cum as lube, cum facial, hospitality, mild food kink, mild teeth kink, tongue-fucking, touch kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: There's a strange boy that visits the shore.
Relationships: Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Series: Dove Descending [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974847
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	1. Raspberry

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a ficlet...it turned into a fullblown fic...the full fic is around 15k words...
> 
> All chapters are finished and will be posted on a schedule of one to two chapters per week.

“Don’t you think you should hang around with kids your own age?”

In response to his question, a _plop_ resounds as a pebble disappears into the ocean, rock soon followed by another and skittering along the surface like a water strider before disappearing like its twin, grey engulfed by clear blue. Alongside the skimming rocks, the pier creaks, a consequence of its squatter, pale legs swinging, jeans rolled up to just above the knees and bare toes disturbing the surface with each movement. His shoes, white socks shoved into the holes, and a backpack sits behind him, brown canvas smudged by dirt and wear and straps worn down from use.

A few seconds pass before another _plop_ follows, rock carelessly thrown and noise drawing another question from Piers.

“Your own species?”

Victor shakes his head. “I like sitting here with you though.” He tosses another pebble, stone bouncing upon the water—once, twice, and thrice before finally sinking. “It’s fun. Don’t you like it too? It’s quiet here.”

“I do, but…” Piers trails off. “this isn’t exactly somethin’ kids your age do.”

It isn’t a lie—he does enjoy their time together, as odd as it is—but he doesn’t quite understand Victor or his reasoning, and Victor himself refuses to explain.

No, that isn’t quite right. Victor explains, but his explanations are too short, sentences sparse and matter-of-fact as if he were explaining some nature-ordained fact, obvious and understandable to everyone but the most foolish of individuals.

Throwing another stone, pebble pile dwindling to just three, Victor continues, “Then I don’t really see a problem.”

“It’s not a problem, Victor.” Piers leans forward, elbows resting on the wood of the dock and bare, wet forearm brushing against Victor’s clothed thigh. “It’s just weird.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Piers shifts, water splashing with the movement. “I’m not human.”

“That’s still not a problem.” Victor frowns, shaking his head as he tosses another rock. “I don’t see how that makes it weird.”

“Victor”—another splash resounds behind him, tail swishing in slight irritation—“I’m a siren. I kill your kind—drown and eat them. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“A little bit,” Victor admits after a pause. “But you haven’t hurt me so far, so it’s fine. You said you wouldn’t hurt me. You gave your word—pinky swore on it.”

At Victor’s response, Piers frowns.

It isn’t Victor’s company that bothers him, strange and childish as it is, but his blasé attitude, unreasonable and lacking in basic common sense. He doesn’t understand it. Shouldn’t every living being have, at the very least, the tiniest bit of self-preservation?

But still, despite the hypothetical ease of it, he doesn’t plan to drown Victor, grasp him by the ankles and pull him downward into depths. It isn’t for the difficulty of it—Victor is light, lighter than others of his age even, and he has had centuries of practice, burly sailors dragged screaming downward, hands wretched from the broken plywood, alongside the ships' screeching cats and the traveling kings and knights—but for the mood of everything.

He hadn’t lied earlier. He does like their meetings, odd and whimsical as they are, words fleeting—soft—as fowl’s feathers sailing upon salty sea wind and always as they are, he bare of everything except his scales, pale grey glinting underneath wave-diluted sunlight, and the ocean spray and Victor garbed in dull reds and blues, cotton and denim both worn as his bag and patched up with sewn-in pieces of green flannel.

They’re odd, their meetings, and nearly always quiet as Victor says, speech humming like the blood coursing beneath their flesh—heart to vein to fingertips.

He wouldn’t drown Victor. The mood isn’t right. The act wouldn’t be right, not as they are now.

Nonetheless, he finds himself speaking anyway.

“I could drown you now, you know,” he says. “You’re not exactly heavy.”

To Victor’s credit, he only shakes his head, eyes as serious and solemn as before. There isn’t even a hint of trembling, chest rising and falling easily with the telltale signs of trust and ease.

“You wouldn’t,” he responds, voice even as always as another _plop_ resounds, rock thrown. “You promised—pinky swore.”

It is a childish repetition, spell-like in nature and almost a mantra, but it is one that Victor repeats, earnest and certain as always.

Victor is right naturally, but he wouldn’t let him know that.

Piers almost speaks again, but Victor interrupts before he can, hands moving to pull his bag closer and zipper soon undone with a loud squeal.

Pulling out a chocolate bar, sweet wrapped in silver and brown accented foil and held loosely in his hand, Victor soon extends it toward Piers, motion smooth and wordless.

Accepting it in hand, Piers’s frown deepens.

It isn’t the gesture itself that bothers him or the timing. Victor is a creature of routine after all, meetings always started in the same manner—he waiting on the dock, denim jeans already rolled up, pale legs swinging, and with his backpack set to the side—and meetings always ended in the same manner, with the breaking of and sharing of food.

He expects the gesture—it always comes without fail—but he doesn’t understand the meaning of it, the unsaid significance of their routine.

Certainly, there’s a sense of gratitude—he isn’t an ingrate—but there’s also curiosity, natural-forming as seafoam upon the morning tide.

But still, despite his own curiosity, he doesn’t ask, and Victor doesn’t elaborate on it.

Much like with the act of drowning, natural as it would be, the act of asking doesn’t come either. The mood isn’t right, questions formed like droplets on the tongue and then soon swallowed back downward into his gullet.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t. The mood isn’t right, quiet descending like sea fog drifting onshore and interrupted only the crinkle of foil, wrapper parting easily underneath his fingertips and quickly followed by the sharp _snap_ of the chocolate bar, noise akin to tree roots wretched upward by a summer storm.

His nails are dark, naturally black in coloration rather than painted, against the white of the chocolate, halve oozing its pale pink filling onto the pallid flesh of his palm and the gray, wet wood of the dock.

They’re dark, pitch dyed deep black—hue seeped into bone—and each nail tipped by a point rather than the round crescents that humans preferred.

More than anything else, they’re talons, obsidian curated and carved for a singular purpose.

Thus, it is with care that he passes the chocolate halve, perfectly, evenly separated and still adorned with its foil sleeve, to Victor, corpse white meeting warm white and pitch-black nails grazing lightly against the healthy pink of his.

They don’t speak even after Victor takes the first bite—he always takes the first bite, another unquestioned part of their routine—and chews, pink syrup smeared onto tiny, white teeth and dripping from his parted lips, viscous fluid soon carefully lapped up by a little tongue.

He doesn’t eat either, not immediately anyhow. He never does. Perhaps it’s odd, but he always finds himself preferring to watch rather than to eat. It isn’t for a distaste—he has never humored anyone besides his sister—nor is it for pleasure.

He couldn’t call it something done solely for pleasure, not when he lacks a reason for everything.

But still, much like with everything else, he doesn’t ask either. It feels rude to do so, a breach of some unsaid and unsigned yet agreed to contract.

He couldn’t ask.

It isn’t polite to ask for a guest’s reason after all. He understands that.

Thus, he only finds himself watching, eyes peering upward to trace at the curves of Victor’s cheeks, flesh tinged by a flush of pink; the slight jut of his collarbone, porcelain white peeking from the unbuttoned opening of his shirt; and every delicate movement—the light flutter of long eyelashes, the gentle rise and fall of his thin chest, and the slight shudder of his pale throat, saliva and chocolate audible as it slides downward, languid as wine.

As relaxed as Victor is, it would be easy enough to pull him downward. One quick motion, one quick snap, teeth clamping downward upon the neck and piercing, fragile skin and bone shattering like chocolate beneath slender fingers.

With his years of practice, it would be quick enough, easy enough—motion swift and finished even before the first scream could come and small body limp, scarlet pooling upon the waves and soon disappearing, backpack and pebble left behind upon the dock as the only reminders of his existence.

It would be easy, more mercy than cruelty, and he hasn’t eaten human in a long time, but he doesn’t. He couldn’t.

As odd as it is, he wouldn’t, not now anyhow. The mood isn’t right.

Instead, he only finds himself watching, melting chocolate held in-between his wet fingers and eyes fixated, rarely blinking, on Victor.

The light scrunch of the nose, the parting lips, rosy pink if a bit chapped from the morning chill, and the fingers carefully wrapped around the piece, white chocolate nibbled upon with care and purpose.

He notices it all: the stench of sea salt with the barest hint of sweetness and earth, the slightest of movements, and even the noise, soft breathing intermingling with the low creak of the pier and the coming tide.

It is only when Victor finishes minutes later—final white square popped into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, sweet sliding downward like a faux Adam’s Apple and tongue lapping at the leftovers on his dirty fingers—that he starts on his own halve.

Unlike Victor, he isn’t as meticulous with his halve, bites larger than his yet no less savored and motions careful as to avoid nicking his tongue on his teeth.

It, the chocolate, isn’t anything like the taste of flesh and marrow—too soft, easily melting in the warmth of his mouth, too sweet, lacking in the metallic tang of blood, and too small, unfilling and only whetting his appetite rather than completely sating it.

It isn’t unpleasant—he wouldn’t eat it if it were—but it isn’t what he truly wants.

Nonetheless, he continues, chocolate carefully chewed and sticking to rows of jagged, white teeth and soon swallowed as Victor’s has been, wet lump sliding downward yet nowhere near as satisfying as clumps of wiry sinew and the crunch of fragmented bone.

It isn’t wholly unpleasant, but it couldn’t be considered wholly pleasant either. It’s too different in both taste and texture to be—too against his own nature and his own being.

Instead, he finds his pleasure, his curiosity rather, elsewhere.

It is in the way that Victor looks at him, gaze intense and observant as his own had been and eyes rarely blinking, dark lashes framing muddy brown eyes like river reeds rather than shielding them, eyelids closing.

Odd yet now expected.

That is how he would describe it, their routine—one eating and the other always watching, waiting with a strange, if silently eager, patience.

He doesn’t ask, and Victor doesn’t explain.

That is how it has always been.

Even when he finishes, inhumanly long tongue flicking outward to lick at his lips, Victor doesn’t speak, only nodding his head before shifting, clothed thigh once again brushing against his bare arm, denim rubbing against a mixture of scales and flesh. Beside him is the remnants of his pile, singular pebble small upon the dock.

Piers doesn’t speak even when Victor zips up his bag, noise unbearably loud as before, pulls on his socks, white cotton drawn over white legs, and shoes, and stands, hoisting the unwieldy thing onto his back before giving a final nod, his version of a farewell.

It would be easy enough to stop him, one swift grab, fingers wrapping around the ankle and talons digging into tender flesh—pass skin, pass tendon and sinew, and into bone and marrow—but he doesn’t.

He couldn’t. The mood isn’t right.

He only watches as Victor turns and continues down the dock, wood creaking underneath his weight and large, brown bag bobbing with each footstep and grey, wool hat barely visible because of it.

When Victor’s figure finally disappears onto the beach, Piers licks his lips again, taste still lingering, cloyingly sweet.

Today’s flavor had been white chocolate and raspberry.

He hadn’t had white chocolate and raspberry before meeting Victor.


	2. Sea Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange boy that visits the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never post anything without completing it first honestly...I don't like writing on the fly since I can't plan as well. And I hate doing tags on the go since then people don't know what to expect going in, and then trouble brews (I use "Creator chose not to warn" as an extra precaution anyway, but it's more for me to avoid possible harassment tbh...).
> 
> I don't tag without reason...

He doesn’t quite remember the name of the town he resides by.

Certainly, he knows what it looks like—he isn’t blind nor is he oblivious—but he doesn’t know the name of it.

Though, that isn’t quite accurate to say. Rather, he doesn’t remember the name of it anymore, doesn’t _care_ to remember the name of it, name having changed too many times for his taste—Delasae to Achene and to a number of others. Really, the last name he remembers is Eraseia and that in itself is an outdated name coming from centuries earlier.

It, the town, doesn’t even look like an Eraseia anymore. The buildings are too modern, colorfully painted and taller than he remembers, every window adorned with a near-countless number of signs and posters, lights always coming alight in the night—pale white, gaudy violets, and a plethora of others, each vying to challenge the constellations themselves or perhaps even Elysium.

Andromeda, Orion, and all the others.

They don’t shine quite as bright as they use to, lights blotted out by smog and the town itself, buildings rising from the brown earth like oaks, manmade instead of naturally born, or rib bones, framework set for humanity itself rather than simply prepared for gods and fiends alike.

The world isn’t as he remembers, mystique not quite unraveled and stripped away yet replaced, nonetheless, with science and reason and explanation rather than continued with magic and dread, unknown looming like the phantoms and spirits he used to see and speak with.

Protective amulets and charms replaced with cellphones, robes exchanged for suits and party dresses, and fear gone—morphed into insolence and defiance, dominion exerted and past nearly forgotten.

He hears the tales, creatures and warnings having faded into legend and now only laughed at or perhaps studied as, defined as, the foolishness of their ancestors—natural phenomena defined by the laws of science rather than as the work of gods, missing children seen as famine-driven infanticide rather than beasts and curses spiriting away, and world seen entirely within the realm of human reason and desire.

The smell and sound aren’t quite right either.

The fish oil and salt are the same certainly. That hasn’t changed, especially on the days that the market opens or the fishing boats come in, large hulls painted in a multitude of gaudy hues and emblazoned with white letters— _Southern_ _Dawn_ , _Europa_ , and a number of others—and green nets heavy with blue-striped mackerel.

But the manner and image aren’t the same.

The boats are too large, solid metal instead of wood; the markets either too crowded or too sparse, always dependent on the tourist season rather than always bustling, women serenading their wares and clay pots carried upon the shoulders, containers filled with water, oil, or perhaps fish; and the sounds too different—boat horns echoing alongside the rumble of car engines and buses and the loud chatter of tourists, each eagerly flocking to the shores and waters rather than shying away from them as they once did.

There isn’t a fear to everything—warnings of snatched children and man-eaters—keeping all but the fishermen and the most foolhardy away.

Too loud, noise cacophonic in its foreignness, in its now normality, and too different in intent.

It isn’t the Eraseia he remembers, the place he would call Eraseia.

Thus, he couldn’t call it Eraseia anymore. He refuses to call it Eraseia, instead deigning to call it Hulbury after a passing cargo ship.

Perhaps it’s petty—it would be easier to simply learn the name. He has heard the name a countless number of times from locals and tourists after all, pronunciation butchered by accents or simplified for visiting gawkers—but he is rather stubborn.

His sister could attest to that, and she had on the day that she had left.

They hadn’t parted on bad terms—it’s more of the opposite really, she unsure and he gently encouraging her along—nor had they ceased contact, messages relayed every few weeks or even simply days depending on the currents and weather.

Rather, she had left, and he hadn’t. Even with her insistence, her pleading, he hadn’t left Eraseia—Hulbury—permanently.

It is his one denial of her, and the one she dislikes the most.

It isn’t that he enjoys Hulbury—it’s too loud, too different, after all—but he is a creature of familiarity and routine, stubbornness embodied. He isn’t like her in that aspect, always eager for new experiences and always restless when not in travel.

Compared to her, he isn’t particularly adventurous. Certainly, he likes to learn, but it, travel, isn’t something that drives him.

It isn’t that he never leaves—nowadays, his hunting grounds are farther from shore and much deeper than the shallows—but he always returns, movements begrudging and almost without any discernable reason, nothing but instinct.

Nonetheless, no matter his reasons or hers, he had stayed, and she hadn’t. Even when the world shook, earth melted like animal fat in a warm stew and rock churned by the rod of modernity, all broken down in the name of progress and replaced with paved concrete and metal, he hadn’t left.

He couldn’t leave even when the noise, machinery droning, drowns out his song—notes fading into the pages of history, myth, and pages then shelved, papyrus neatly wrapped in in the ribbons of memory and folklore.

His voice still works naturally—he is rather young by his species’ standards—but it is in the drone of the boats, engines deafening, and in the overcrowding, bodies a mix of small and large and voices speaking in a near-countless number of languages, dialects and accents differing further still.

Loud and careless—swarming the sandy shores like ants emerging from an anthill rather than staying away as they used to.

It isn’t quite like the years before, the centuries and millennia before, when they all stayed away, fearful and rightfully superstitious of the voices calling from beside the shores, human speech mimicked to perfection and beguiling.

Certainly, there are more of them now, more opportunities for meals, but that doesn’t quite help, not with what he knows of the them now.

Curious and zealous when it comes to their own, lacking in the sacrificial nature of old—no children thrown over cliffs or left to fend for themselves for the mere crime of being lame or to appease some perceived spirit—humans aren’t quite the same as they used to be.

Too keen on dissecting mystique and too keen on being kind to their own.

It isn’t like the old days when all he had to fear were the most exceptional, heroes and their like, his own kind, and the rare guest, form differing from his own and those of a natural human—always some wayward satyr or haughty nymph.

He couldn’t eat as he like. He doesn’t quite want to be found after all, trapped and then dissected or perhaps kept in a cage for everyone to gawk at.

Though, he couldn’t quite keep away entirely. Even with the changes, soft grain marred by kitschy huts and colorful umbrellas blooming like flowers, he couldn't stay away. He likes the shores too much for that.

Thus, he finds himself visiting from time to time, during the off-hours and always within the edges of one’s vision, long, dark hair mistaken for seaweed and skeletal form hidden underwater, shape willfully mistaken for that of a particularly large fish or perhaps even simply declared a figment of an overactive imagination.

Even when his hands graze against their ankles, nails scraping against the jutting bone and always loosening at the last second, he’s mistaken for some other thing—some fish, some plant, some figment.

They don’t quite look at him, gazes always elsewhere and fears long buried, seeds never quite budding as they should.

He’s still careful naturally, especially so. He doesn’t want to be found after all.

Perhaps that is why Victor is such an oddity, something to be kept around rather than immediately eaten.

Their first meeting, if it could be called that, hadn’t even been face-to-face, not truly. Instead, it had merely as his other ventures had been—he still submerged, nearing shore, and Victor sitting on the dock, shoes and bag set beside him and pale legs swinging.

Undoubtedly, he had found it somewhat odd that Victor had been alone—adults usually aren’t prone to letting their children roam about unaccompanied nowadays, especially on a deserted beach hours before sunrise—but still, he hadn’t thought much of it, too lost in his own thoughts. Furthermore, he understands tourists, always prone to arriving at odd hours in an attempt to claim the spaces nearest to the shore before rush hour and always irresponsible when it comes to their own progeny.

He hadn’t thought much of it then.

Not until a pebble had whizzed pass his cheek, having been thrown with a surprising amount of force for someone of Victor’s stature, and with a second one soon following, nailing him in the forehead and drawing a light curse.

It hadn’t been enough to break the skin or to leave a bruise, but it had been an annoyance, one only accentuated when a third one had whizzed by, grazing his cheek.

By themselves, the pebbles wouldn’t have been particularly interesting, annoying certainly but not odd, nothing worth a meeting—he’s had rocks thrown at him before—but that hadn’t been what had drawn him to Victor.

It had been the greeting that had come afterward, _hello_ accented, English lilted and accent most likely Western European in origin, and a bit muffled because of the distance and water.

There had a peculiar ease to him, and peculiarity only increasing when another _hello_ had left the boy’s lips, even and sure and expectant as the last.

He couldn’t have dismissed it as a mere joke, a child’s game of repetition and echoes, not when another pebble had come, forceful as the last, nicking his shoulder, and accompanied by another greeting, words now tinged with a bit of impatience and displeasure.

He isn’t foolhardy, but he isn’t entirely bereft of curiosity either.

At the very least, he had been curious enough to draw closer, body still fully submerged with hair loose, splayed and drifting like seaweed, and stopping just before the dock to scrutinize.

Even then, Victor hadn’t been particularly memorable in appearance.

Truly, if he were to describe Victor’s appearance in a few words, it would be _mediocre_ , less than mediocre even, and forgettable, neither memorably ugly nor even simply slightly above average. Rather, his appearance is akin to soil, present yet always forgotten in favor of everything else—from the animals prancing above to the blossoms’ blooms and the swaying green grass.

Plain—hair and eyes both a similar shade of dark brown, hue akin to fresh mud, and clothes comparably simple, shirt and jeans chosen for practicality rather than for style.

Outside of his foreignness, accent and features notable only because of their location and meeting only marginally notable because of the time and setting, he isn’t especially impressive.

Even the scent isn’t much to speak of—earth and wood with a hint of lavender.

The voice isn’t much to speak of either, youthful and boyish, neither too high nor too low and just on the cusp of adolescence.

Overall, Victor is a mediocre boy, lacking in any defining physical quality.

Even when Victor had begun speaking then, _hello_ forming once more and chatter soon following without pause, it hadn’t been particularly eventful, topics mundane and ranging from the trivial to the barely interesting.

He doesn’t particularly care for where Victor hails from—he had been right with his guess, Western Europe, specifically the Isles—or for his proclivities: his favorite colors and snacks, his distaste for hot weather, and so forth. But still, he had found himself listening anyway.

Certainly, everything had been a bit odd, but Victor is a child—ten or perhaps eleven years of age at most. He’s met, lured and eaten rather, children before, and they were often chatty, always looking for a friend and ignorant of danger, overly curious and defiant of their parents’ warnings and expectations.

Really, in his opinion, it’s stranger that he had stayed as he had—hours listening and eyes gazing upward. He hadn’t even been sure if Victor could see him. Even with the moonlight, humans aren’t noted for their eyesight, especially in the dark.

At the very least, it had set the precedence for their later meetings, Victor normally chattering and he usually listening.

Furthermore, it would have been easy enough to pull him downward, disappearance perhaps seen as an accident, boy tripped and drowned, rather than as a monster’s predation.

He hadn’t understood his own ambivalence then, and he still doesn’t understand it now.

Nonetheless, he remembers how the conversation had paused, halting mid-sentence near sunrise and sudden silence breaking his stupor, quiet soon interrupted again by the sound of a bag unzipping, foil-wrapped chocolate bar soon drawn from its depths.

Much like their meetings now, it had ended with the sharing of food, sweets as they often were.

Leaning forward with hand extending toward the water, chocolate bar just barely grazing the surface, Victor had been expectant, quiet in his ideals and his offering.

What had Victor thought then? He had never replied to any of Victor’s questions nor had he interjected. For all Victor knew, he could have simply been chatting with himself, ramblings of a particularly lonely child or of a madman.

Hell, they hadn’t even exchanged names at that point.

Still, despite everything, Victor hadn’t withdrawn his hand even as the moments passed, confectionary perfectly still.

He could have pulled Victor downward then as well, talons wrapped tightly around the slim wrist, but he hadn’t. Perhaps it had been the novelty, the strangeness of everything, that had stopped him, but he had only found himself reaching forward and upward, slender fingers breaking the surface to grab at the chocolate.

The mood hadn’t been right. It wouldn’t have been polite. He hadn’t had anything to give in return.

He hadn’t given anything in return then.

Despite the appearance of hand, an inhuman one at that, Victor hadn’t flinched, grip loosening easily, hand withdrawing, and eyes still expectant.

He isn’t sure what had drove him then, whim or perhaps some stroke of fairness, but he had unwrapped it then, dark nails pulling at the silver foil to reveal a black bar, dark chocolate, and fingers soon snapping it evenly in half.

When he had extended a halve toward Victor, hand breaking the surface once more, he had been met with an odd eagerness—chocolate swiftly and gladly received from his hand despite its wetness, saltwater dripping.

Chocolate drawn to his lips, he hadn’t expected anything else then, and thus, Victor’s question, sudden as it was, had come as a surprise, another peculiarity.

“What’s your name?”

It’s a simple question, one that should have come at the beginning as introductions often are nowadays, but he had found himself pausing.

Should he have answered? He still isn’t quite sure, but he hadn’t seen the harm in it at the time. Really, what would Victor had even done with his name? Told his parents about the creature living by the shore? Most humans would have seen it as a child’s fib for attention or as mere make-believe.

People don’t believe in myths anymore after all.

Perhaps it had been the newness of everything—conversations are a rarity nowadays with his sister gone—but he finds himself responding, shifting after a few moments of silence.

Despite his visage—he knows his appearance is grotesque, teeth and scales inspiring a primal sort of terror—Victor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scream as he should.

Expectant and entirely too at ease, that has always been another of Victor’s peculiarities and perhaps his own as well.

They don’t act as they should after all.

Even when he speaks, English tinged by his own accent, Victor’s expression doesn’t change, still intent as always.

Victor had only nodded, lips moving to mouth his name—pink tongue curling on the _r_.

Another nod had come then before Victor had lifted his own chocolate halve to his mouth, saltwater trickling down the sides of his hand and chocolate barely touching his lips.

He hadn’t expected much else then, not until Victor had lowered his hand, lips moving to speak.

“Victor,” he says after a few moments of pause, oddly hesitant. “My name is Victor. I almost forgot to tell you.”

He hadn’t waited for a response then, teeth soon biting into his chocolate and actions setting precedence for their later meetings—Victor always eating first and with he watching, chocolate in hand.

Despite the time since then, weeks spanning, he still remembers the taste of his own halve.

He hadn’t quite liked that one, not as much as some of the other ones anyhow.

Nonetheless, despite his own opinion on the flavor, Victor had devoured it easily, chocolate squares quickly disappearing and eyes soon focused solely on him, unperturbed even as he had grimaced at the taste.

Overwhelmingly bitter with only the barest hint of sweetness and salt.

It isn’t a taste that he cares for.

It isn’t a taste that he thinks most children, most _adults_ , would care for.

Too bittersweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still gotta work on my next fic (hoping it will be a ficlet), but I also gotta finish farming FGO's lottery event...and play the games I bought on the Eshop sale...Final Fantasy sale...
> 
> Though, I wouldn't take Victor at face-value. He's rather weird honestly, and it's intentional. Same goes for the setting of their meetings and everything else—language, ideas, and so forth.
> 
> Major themes of this fic are change, one's own nature, and connection. Furthermore, there are plenty of allusions and other literary devices naturally) and ideas scattered throughout. I like "plotty and meaty" fics after all.
> 
> As an aside, the sex scene is a little over 5000 words. I like monsters a lot, and I don't really care as much for "monsters but they're just basically humans in a Halloween costume," so I always enjoy being able to write more "out there" sex scenes.


	3. Matcha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange boy that visits the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost Christmas...I don't celebrate it, but I love holiday movies...

“Mr. Peony gave me some berry bread today.”

“Mr. Peony?”

“He’s someone who lives in town,” Victor replies, wood dock creaking underneath him. “He runs a confectionery, and he and Peonia—that’s his daughter—like to give me sweets whenever I pass by.” Victor shifts again. “Though, I think they want to expand to selling baked goods too.”

Piers nods. “Are they any good? The pastries?”

He doesn’t need to ask about the chocolate, not when they’ve eaten dozens of them over the past few months and in a variety of flavors and shapes: miniature chocolate spheres coated with crushed nuts to delicately carved animals, white chocolate smooth and free from impurities, to the more common bar-shape, color and fillings almost always differing.

Pale green matcha with oozy dark chocolate cream, solid rosy pink strawberry, and numerous other combinations, some obviously experimental and others more plain, well-liked and always a fixture of any standard menu.

Despite the numerous flavors, however, he finds himself still preferring white chocolate with raspberry, odd as that choice is—overly sweet and gooey, always lingering on the lips and fingers and akin to a persistent memory.

Of course, they’re all rather different, tastes too sweet or too bitter, lacking in that familiar savoriness that he prefers, but they aren’t entirely terrible, entirely intolerable.

He wouldn’t eat them otherwise.

Victor shakes his head. “I ‘unno yet. I haven’t tried them yet.”

Much to Piers’s surprise, Victor’s hands move to his bag, fingers nimbly undoing the metal clasps before pulling the zipper. Pulling out a small bundle, Victor unwraps the cloth, purple fabric falling away to reveal a dark brown loaf.

The timing isn’t quite right, differing from their previous meetings, hours still remaining until the sunrise, and the action isn’t quite right. Victor doesn’t pass the bread to him first. Instead, he pulls, bread tearing in half to reveal a soft inside speckled with bits of dark blue.

It isn’t their routine. It shouldn’t be, too abnormal even by their standards.

Nonetheless, the halves aren’t quite even, one halve slightly larger than the other, but Victor doesn’t comment on it. He only leans over the edge, passing the larger halve to Piers, soft fingertips grazing against wet, bony knuckles and lingering seconds longer than he should.

No, that isn’t quite right, not with the way Victor’s eyes widen in surprise, expression mirroring his own.

He hadn’t meant to grab Victor’s wrist, grip firm yet not enough to hurt and nails dark against the white of his skin.

He hadn’t meant to grab him, not now anyhow.

Despite his actions, however, Victor doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even turn away, surprise soon morphing into curiosity, chest rising and falling as easily as it always has. Idly, he notes the faint pulse underneath his palm and the feeling of Victor’s skin—thin, soft, delicate as lily petals.

It would be easy enough to pull him downward now, but despite the normalcy of the action—that is who he is, before and always, and who they should be, monster and prey—he doesn’t. Victor doesn’t.

He doesn’t drag him downward as he should, and Victor doesn’t pull away, eyes only meeting his with childish curiosity—warm brown gazing at cool blue.

They only stay as they are—routine interrupted and unspeaking, words swallowed by the waves and answer waiting—and seconds spanning into minutes.

Even when they separate, he withdrawing first, hand loosening to grab the offered bread, Victor doesn’t comment on the strangeness of everything as he should. He only stares, gaze still curious and other hand loosely holding his own halve.

Though, much like with the strangeness of everything else today—of everything really—Victor doesn’t eat first this time.

“It’s plum and blueberry,” Victor says finally, voice even as always. “That’s what Mr. Peony said.”

Piers doesn’t reply even as Victor continues, “It’s a good combination. I used to have this sort of bread with a bit of honey and milk back home.” Victor pauses for a moment. “Please…can you try it? I know you don’t really like sweet things, but it would mean a lot to me if you did.”

After another moment, Victor hastily adds, “It’s not poisoned or anything. You have my word.”

Much like with everything else, it isn’t quite as it should be—words going against unsaid routine and too sincere, open and wanting.

It’s an objectively simple matter of course, one merely concerning the act of eating, but it is the act itself—the act of asking—that bothers him, unfamiliarity pricking.

He has never been asked before, meal offered rather than taken and sincerity given from an essential stranger rather than a blood relative.

Thus, he finds himself complying, teeth sinking into the bread, insides moist because of the berries and the sea air. It’s sweet, mushy—purple plum and blueberry staining his teeth and sticking—and as Victor had expected, he doesn’t quite care for it.

Too sweet, sweetness numbing as one of his own songs with the barest hint of tartness, and too slight in its differences—crumb soft, soggy on his tongue rather than melting as chocolate does, and crust still crisp, crunching lightly as he chews.

It isn’t the same as their previous meetings—time differing, food differing, and order differing, first taste offered rather than immediately taken.

It isn’t the same because Victor speaks, words spun forward from his tongue like spider’s silk and eyes still peering down at him.

He hasn’t finished eating yet.

“Is it okay? Not too unbearable?”

Piers shakes his head, swallowing. Despite the sweetness, he feels himself taking another bite, sweetness aching upon his tongue and soon eaten, sliding down his throat.

He doesn’t quite understand his own actions, but he doesn’t quite understand the way Victor’s eyes look at him either, eager and expectant and curious.

It’s different, wholly so from the gazes that he remembers—warmth searing rather than merely consoling.

It isn’t like his sister’s, warmth too overbearing. It isn’t like those of the guests that he has entertained, disdain and greed obvious underneath the flattery. It isn’t like those of the people that he has eaten, terror palpable alongside the noise.

Victor’s gaze is too quiet, desires unsaid despite his chatter.

He talks of himself and yet, he doesn’t.

He knows of Victor’s opinions on the weather and seasons, his hobbies and interests, and even a bit about his opinions on food and fashion—sweetness preferred over tartness, spicy over mild, and a plethora of other bits and fragments, all tiny puzzle pieces to be assembled into his visage.

They’re all trivial things in the grand scheme, shallow trivia.

It isn’t Victor’s past, his memories given form in speech, nor is it his thoughts, his vulnerabilities and opinions.

He knows Victor as he is now, but it isn’t _who_ he is.

It, every piece of chatter, isn’t the reason for who he is. It isn’t his memories and his opinions, emotion laid bare and entirely vulnerable. Instead, it’s fluff, akin to a wish granted by dandelion seeds fluttering, pretty but ultimately meaningless.

Victor doesn’t say what he wants, not truly.

It isn’t _who_ he is, _what_ has made him who he is.

But still, he has never asked Victor either. Rather, he has always listened—to anything and everything.

“Is it too sweet? It’s a new recipe, so I ‘unno how much sugar Mr. Peony put in it, an—”

“It’s fine, Victor,” Piers interrupts.” Bit too sweet, but you can tell him that the next time you see him.”

“Oh.” Victor nods. He’s never interrupted him before. “Is the taste okay though? The plum and blueberry, I mean.”

“Mm-hmm. Don’t worry too much ‘bout it.” Piers pauses for a moment. “Just…why do you keep doin’ this?”

It’s an honest question even as Victor tilts his head, inquisitive brown eyes peering downward.

“Doing what?” he asks.

“You know”—Piers makes a small motion with his free hand—"everythin’. You come almost every day, and you always bring somethin’. Doesn’t it get borin’? I don’t really talk, you know?”

He doesn’t mention how he himself always visits, arriving at the same hour every day, how he listens, or how he accepts every gift, food shared between them.

“Oh,” Victor repeats, face now marred by a small frown. “I don’t mind. I already told you. I like spending time with you. It’s fun.” He tilts his head again. “It’s the customs around here, right? To bring gifts and to share stories? That’s what I’ve heard.”

Piers nods at that. “It is, but…” Piers pauses again. He hasn’t had a guest in a long time. If he were to be honest, that is what Victor is at this point, always visiting with tidings and gifts and staying until just past sunrise. It’s close enough anyhow. “I haven’t really given you anythin’ in return.”

Perhaps he should be struck down then—that’s how it usually goes in these sorts of occasions and admittances—but Victor only shakes his head.

“You have,” Victor insists, fingers tightening slightly around his halve. “You’ve given me your _name_ ”—Piers isn’t quite sure why Victor accentuates that particular word, tongue rolling—"and you’ve given me your time.”

Another pause, hesitant, before Victor continues, “Do you like spending time with me? Is it a bother?”

“No.” Piers shakes his head. “It’s not a bother, but it’s just…spendin’ time with me probably isn’t the most interestin’ event in the world, right? Haven’t really been entertainin’ you and all.”

Another _oh_ leaves Victor’s lips before he frowns, pink lips pursing slightly and motion accentuating his youthfulness in its childishness.

“Then…can you sing for me? One of your songs?” Victor asks. “I don’t care about the subject. Just…I want to hear you sing.” Another pause, considering. “You’d be entertaining me then, and I haven’t heard a siren sing before. I always like new experiences.”

Piers frowns at that—there’s a reason for that, songs meant to snare and to enthrall unsuspecting passersby rather than solely for visitors—but Victor continues, curiosity obvious.

“You’ll help me if something happens, right?” Victor shifts again, bringing his halve up to his mouth though he doesn’t bite into it. “Won’t you?”

After a moment, Piers replies, “I would, but…do you really want to hear that? Of all requests?”

He isn’t a bad singer—he knows that for certain, prideful as it is to say—but his songs aren’t the happiest, most dealing with tragedy and ruin rather than any joyous occasion or happy ending.

They aren’t fitting, meant more for a victim’s ears than for a guest’s, and he’s never finished one to the end, not for anyone outside of his sister anyhow—listeners all usually drowned and then eaten, flesh rended from bone.

“I do,” Victor says, shifting once more. “I’ll be fine. You’re here after all.”

Piers doesn’t miss the bit of flattery, and he nods. “If you’re certain ‘bout this.”

“I am.”

Opening his mouth, Piers stops, lips soon forming into another frown. He doesn’t quite know what to sing. His songs are too morbid, too melancholic, too callous in their topics, or even simply, too short, a few dozen seconds to a minute long.

As silly as it is to say—should he really care if they were proper or not?—a majority of his melodies aren’t quite appropriate for his current audience or for the setting.

Victor wouldn’t be able to understand them anyhow, language older and differing from English and even modern Greek.

At the very least, Victor doesn’t rush him. He only stares, attentive as always.

After a few moments of consideration, Piers opens his mouth again, words spilling softly outward.

It isn’t a particularly long song—only a little over ten minutes compared to some of his longer pieces—but at the very least, it isn’t an entirely violent one, subject centered on some war or catastrophe.

Instead, it is merely a lullaby, some old song he remembers singing to his sister during their younger years and lyrics entirely adlibbed, melancholic melody centering on a soldier returning home to Ithaca.

His music has never been happy, not truly, but he has nothing else to offer.

When he reaches the midpoint, he almost expects Victor to lunge at him—that’s how it has always been, humans and beasts alike soon drowning in their hurry—but much to his surprise, he doesn’t.

Victor only looks at him, eyes attentive as always, and little, white teeth nibbling on his bread, interest directly almost solely at him.

There is no madness, no desperation—nothing but childlike curiosity and delight.

When he finishes his song—silence descending and sun now almost fully risen—Victor’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t move, lunging forward or even simply leaning forward to reach him. He only continues to nibble on his halve, teeth still pearly white and unstained by violet and blue.

It isn’t normal, but nothing about them has been normal.

It is only when Victor finally finishes eating, bread gone and purple fabric clenched loosely in his hands, that he speaks, admiration obvious and unsettling in its sincerity.

Victor shouldn’t be charmed yet lucid and still entirely sane. Even the nymphs and satyrs had difficulty resisting his song let alone a human.

“That was beautiful,” he says, smiling. “I really enjoyed it. Honest.”

When Victor finally reaches forward, purple fabric wavering lightly in the morning wind, it isn’t to grab him as others have attempted before, always to their failing and their death.

Instead, Victor only dabs the edge gently against the corner of his lip and fabric soon withdrawn.

“You had some plum stuck on your lips,” Victor’s hand returns to dab at the other corner of Piers’s mouth, gentle as before. “My apologies.”

Despite the gentleness of everything, Piers couldn’t quite help but tense, especially with Victor’s next few words.

“My favorite part was when Kirke turned the men into pigs,” he says before frowning lightly. “I don’t really care for Odysseus saving them though—they were so rude, and they didn’t even offer to let her eat first—but that’s how the story has always gone, right?”

Piers doesn’t reply, and Victor doesn’t comment on it. He only withdraws, hands soon coming to fold in his lap.

“It really was good though,” Victor says once more, eyes earnest. “Your voice is beautiful.”

Despite Victor’s praise and his sincerity, Piers doesn’t relax.

He couldn’t.

He doesn’t know who his guest is after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another major theme of this fic is hospitality and its different forms with Greek hospitality taking a center role. Hospitality is a rather big deal in Ancient Greece (and today as well) since seafaring was/is a major part of the culture.
> 
> Though, you can say hospitality was a major component of many of the more "ancient" cultures around the world and hence why so many punishments for bad guests are so harsh by modern-day standards and why so many older stories center on it (Odyssey, Baba Yaga, etc.). Since travel was much more dangerous back in the day, you often had to rely on strangers' good will to move around. Xenia, "Greek hospitality," in particular is the focus of this fic alongside Victor's version and that's where the cultural clash comes in. Though, I kinda wish AO3 had a more "specific" tag than that since it's not exactly what I want, but it's the closest one.
> 
> In particular, the Odyssey is a story seeped in hospitality and like many stories and epics such as Beowulf, it attempts to reinforce cultural norms. It's a rather complex story with many different ideals woven in, but one of the ideas is hospitality. There are many bad guests and hosts in it, and for example, Odysseus's troubles can be boiled down to being a bad guest (pillaging Polyphemus's goods, which ironically, is what the suitors essentially do, though Polyphemus is also a bad host in the sense that he was gonna eat them).
> 
> In a sense, Victor and Piers are a bad guest and host though once again, cultural differences are at play alongside other things. As a siren, Piers wouldn't exactly be a good host normally considering he destroys ships and eats people, and Victor's technically a good guest if we go by what logic he's using. There's a lot at play.
> 
> Victor's been working on his own set of logic and hospitality with a minimal understanding of Xenia, and I think it's rather obvious what he actually is. Language and action (or sometimes, lack of) play major roles as well. I think it's rather important to look at what he says, how he says it, what his fixations are, and so forth. I might actually do an extra "Author Notes" chapter to explain everything at the end this time tbh...


	4. Caramel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange boy that visits the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did write a Christmas fic for Piers/Victor but tbh, I probably won't post it until after Christmas since I wanna space out updates and fics. It's more "tongue-in-cheek" half-serious, half-fluff tbh.

In hindsight, perhaps he should have expected something or at the very least, asked sooner rather than nearly a year later after their first meeting. But still, it wouldn’t have been polite to ask then, act going against the laws governing engagement and travel.

It wouldn’t have been hospitable. He hasn’t fed him yet, clothed and bathed him as customs demand.

Though, that in itself isn’t all too odd really. He isn’t human, and he isn’t kind, rarely playing at being a host.

He has rarely _needed_ to play host, humans drowned and visitors a rarity.

Nevertheless, whatever the past may be, he’s certain now that Victor isn’t human.

He couldn’t be human.

Certainly, there had been oddities beforehand—Victor’s perpetual visits, all attributed to negligent parents and perhaps a house near the shores, among many others—but he hadn’t paid them much mind, too busy with his own considerations and the visits themselves.

He couldn’t say that he hated them, not when he had willingly met Victor at almost every possible occasion.

Despite his certainty, however, he doesn’t ask Victor, not immediately anyhow.

It isn’t for a lack of curiosity, but for a lack of knowledge. He doesn’t know how to broach the subject, not without discourtesy. He doesn’t want to be rude, both a matter of his own pride, twisted as it is, and a matter of practicality.

He doesn’t know who Victor is, not truly.

He knows of Victor’s opinions on the weather and seasons, his hobbies and interests, and even a bit about his opinions on food and fashion, but nothing that truly matters. He doesn’t know _who_ he is, past enshrouded, nor _what_ he is.

He doesn’t know who his guest is and that is what concerns him.

Thus, he finds himself continuing their routine, now irregular as it is.

It isn’t that Victor stops visiting—his visits are still like clockwork, timing one of the few certainties of everything—but his gifts and words are strange now, honest yet not.

Unlike the days before, Victor’s offerings aren’t predictable. Rather, they differ—chocolate now offered alongside flowers, roses and daffodils among a variety of others, or perhaps some coins and fresh fruit, apples and oranges and honeydew melons drawn unbruised and shining from the confines of his bag alongside a small folding knife.

On some days, Victor even forgoes the chocolate instead offering sweet breads, insides stuffed with a variety of berries, with a bit of honey and pastries topped with glaze or icing and sliced fruits.

They’re all a bit too sweet for his taste, but he doesn’t hate them. He wouldn’t eat them otherwise.

Furthermore, he doesn’t want to upset Victor, offend him in a manner that would draw ire.

He doesn’t want to drive him away.

There’s a practicality to his decision certainly—he doesn’t know what a true offense would bring—but also a sentimentality, strange and wholly against his own nature.

He doesn’t _want_ to upset Victor, fondness turned into wariness and distrust.

It isn’t like him, but nothing about their relationship has been normal so far.

Perhaps that is why he finds himself bringing his own offering one day.

It isn’t especially grand, neither cooked nor prepared in any special way like the gifts Victor offers, but it is his best, offering obtained through his own skill and a symbol of who and what he is.

Despite his normal preferences in food, he is, by nature, a creature of the sea.

At the very least, Victor doesn’t automatically reject it, wood planks shaking as Piers heaves the tuna, blue-scaled and yellow-finned, onto the dock.

Instead, Victor only tilts his head, curious as always and eyes gleaming with some secret or another.

“You have my gratitude.”

Victor’s words are a rather archaic phrase in his opinion, but he doesn’t particularly mind, not when Victor’s fingers, nails rounded rather than pointed, sink into the fish’s side and plucks out a sizable chunk, red flesh gleaming underneath the moonlight. Leaning over the edge of the dock, careful as to avoid falling, Victor passes the chunk to Piers before his hand once again sinks into the fish to pull out his own piece.

Much like with the berry bread, Piers eats first, teeth sinking into the flesh easily and taste familiar, savory rather than sweet. Quickly, it disappears into his mouth.

He expects a quiet affair—that is how a majority of their meals have been, one watching as the other eats—but it isn’t.

Rather, Victor, after a few moments of pause, speaks, voice even and sure as if commenting on the weather and not his own being.

“I’m not human,” Victor says as he brings the tuna up to his mouth.

It’s a rather obvious revelation at this point, but at the very least, it saves him the trouble of broaching it.

Victor continues, teeth soon biting into a bit of tuna and chewing, words coming after he swallows, “I am one of the Unseelie.”

“A fairy,” Victor clarifies at Piers’s expression. “We normally frequent the Isles as you do Hellas. It’s where we feel most at home.”

He vaguely knows what a fairy is—his sister has mentioned them before briefly, always in irritation—but still, he doesn’t quite understand everything: the secrecy, the appearance, and even simply Victor himself, mannerisms wholly odd.

“Why travel then?” Piers asks. He couldn’t quite help himself. He understands curiosity naturally—his sister is much the same—but Victor is more like himself than her, a creature of routine and almost entirely methodical.

Victor tilts his head. “Because I’m bored. We live a long time, and it’s tiresome. Don’t you feel the same way?” Victor doesn’t wait for a reply. “The world’s changing, and there’s not much room for us any more, you know? People don’t really believe unless they need something.” His nose scrunches, disdainful. “I blame His believers—always so zealous.”

Another shake of the head before Victor turns his gaze back to Piers. “Really, aren’t you tired of this? The same scenery?”

“A little bit,” Piers admits after a small pause. “but traveling? The world’s still the same, isn’t it? You’re not goin’ to get more believers.”

“No”—Victor shakes his head—“but that’s not what I care for, not what I want. People…they always want something. They always have expectations. Everything, traveling—it’s _new_. It’s fun, anonymous, and I like new experiences.” Victor tilts his head again. “Don’t you tire of that? Always having to act a certain way? Humans always expect us to act as their stories are.”

“That _is_ who we are.”

“Not always,” Victor says, simple as always. “We can always be more.” Popping the last bit of tuna into his mouth, he chews before swallowing, teeth white and pristine as always. “You’ve been more. I’ve seen it You didn’t drown me—more than once even—and you didn’t drown those people even though you could.”

“It’s a matter of practicality,” Piers responds. “Can’t really escape humans nowadays.”

Victor frowns. “Are you certain? People can’t dive to the same depths that you can. They wouldn’t be able to find you, not unless you let them.” He folds his hands onto his lap, palms clean of the fish blood that should be there. “And most don’t believe that you exist anyway. They would look for a shark or some other beast instead.”

“What about you then?” He knows a bit about fairies, sister having complained about deceit and wordplay. “You haven’t been honest.”

He doesn’t expect Victor to scowl then.

“I haven’t lied,” he says. “You assumed. I have told you only the truth.”

Victor shifts again before continuing, “We value honesty. _I_ value honesty. I haven’t lied to you so far, and I haven’t hurt you. I don’t _plan_ to hurt you.”

Piers doesn’t expect Victor to lean forward then, hand reaching outward to press gently against his cheek and palm soft, lacking in the callouses and scales of his own palms.

It’s intimate, overly so, but he doesn’t pull away even as Victor begins to speak again.

He couldn’t, not with the way Victor looks at him, gaze attentive and eyes a bit wet.

“We value our words and our exchanges,” he says, and Piers feels his fingers move, softly stroking small circles into the skin and motion drawing a small shiver. “We’re not thieves. We don’t trick people.” Another stroke and another shiver. “But people always assume that we place the same value in the things that they do. We don’t.”

Victor doesn’t remove his hand even when Piers tilts his head, leaning into the touch. He doesn’t mean to, but he couldn’t quite help himself.

Victor’s palm is too warm, flesh soft and touch softer in its intentions.

“I don’t intend to hurt you. I don’t _want_ to hurt you,” he says. Despite the quietness of his voice, his words are clear, ringing as a bell. “You have my word.”

“And if you do?” Piers manages to get out, breath warming Victor’s palm further. He doesn’t quite want to move.

“Then I will die,” Victor replies, voice even. “Our word is our life—our law and our retribution. That is why we act as we do. It isn’t a matter of nature that I can change, not as easily as you can with yours.”

There’s a bitterness to his voice, but it quickly dissipates.

“Let me prove it to you,” Victor says. “Let me stay, visit, every day for three years starting from today. If I harm you in this time, then decide my fate—expel me, hurt me, eat me if you wish. Anything. Just…” Victor pauses for a moment, hesitant, before his voice continues, “Let me stay with you.”

Another caress, and Victor speaks again, word simple in its sound yet innumerable in its meaning.

“Please?” Victor asks. The word is as soft-spoken as the others, but Piers finds his breath hitching at the noise.

He should decline—it’s against his nature to do otherwise—but he doesn’t.

He only finds himself nodding, _yes_ soon leaving his lips and teeth still tinged by red.

It is only then that Victor’s hand withdraws, soon returning to slide up his cheek and to tuck a strand of stringy, wet hair behind his ear.

He shouldn’t, but he finds himself leaning further into the touch.

It’s warm, overly so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want so badly to unload the sex scene on Christmas and ruin the holiday, but I can't...my update schedule...it's like...possibly nasty depending on how you feel about certain things, but I toned it down to make it more palpable for the masses. You know I was originally gonna have graphic, symbolic, consensual cannibalism (with regeneration) during the sex scene until I took it out? No one dies, but it was gonna be there until I axed that section.
> 
> Gotta save the guro for DNKB I guess...
> 
> Also you know some scholars theorize that ambrosia is honeydew? I think food is a rather important concept in this fic for a variety of reasons though I don't actually have a food kink myself. It just fits.


	5. Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange boy that visits the shores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want a kettlebell so bad, but I gotta wait until people break their New Year's resolutions to buy one on discount/resale...love exercising...but I also want to get Phoenix Rising and FFIX for the Switch...expensive...or maybe GSSR for FGO?

True to Victor’s word, he doesn’t harm him, days passing idly as before and meetings always occurring at the same time. However, Victor is chattier than before, stories and questions leaving more easily and he responding in turn with his own—question for question, story for story, and answer for answer.

Though, they aren’t always sensible, some questions concerning events that he has never witnessed personally, nothing outside of rumors and hearsay, and others near-nonsensical or merely odd in their worries.

He has never met Odysseus personally or anyone of that sort, and he doesn’t particularly understand some of Victor’s peculiarities, politeness fixated upon and often differing in opinion from his own.

He doesn’t understand Victor’s fascination with him either, fingers frequently trailing upon his skin—cheek to chin to collarbone and to chest, digits caressing at the protruding ribs, naturally skeletal in frame—or upon his hands and wrists, fingertips stroking against the scales and flesh and jutting bone.

Though, he couldn’t say that he didn’t have a similar interest in Victor’s own being, mediocrity fixated upon.

Plain and with little to set him apart from everyone else, clothes always the same and face always the same—the same eyes, the same nose, and the same mouth, lips small and pink.

It is the lack of change that fascinates him.

Physically, Victor doesn’t change. He doesn’t age, body growing larger. Certainly, that could be attributed to their respective species—his species is a slow-changing one as well—but Victor doesn’t change in any respect: no injuries, no stains upon the teeth or clothes, nothing particularly notable or even slightly differing.

Even his clothes are the same day to day, always clean and lacking in the smell of poor hygiene.

He has asked Victor on the subject before, and he’s often met with a shrug and a simple, if rather boring and mundane, answer.

“We don’t change physically—not in the truest sense,” he says, “and I like my clothes. They’re comfy and neat.” He tilts his head. “We do use glamours from time to time though. I don’t like it though. Too cumbersome.”

Boring and somewhat plain. That is how he would describe both Victor and his answer, reply having then digressed into an explanation of style and fairy magic.

Strange habits and truth of his identity aside, Victor isn’t especially different from the average person, not that he has much experience with those.

Nonetheless, he finds himself continuing their visits and humoring Victor’s requests, odd as they are at times and almost always a request for contact, physical touch and verbal conversation.

It isn’t like him. Outside of his sister, he has never particularly cared for contact, but he humors him even as the days tick down.

When the final day comes, Victor’s gaze is expectant—quiet—as always, hand still resting upon his cheek as it often is nowadays and palm overly soft, lacking in callouses.

Even when his hand moves to grab Victor’s wrist, he doesn’t speak, chest rising and falling as easily as always.

He shouldn’t—it’s against his nature—but he finds himself pulling Victor downward from the dock and into an embrace, small hands soon coming to wrap loosely around his neck in an effort to avoid falling completely into the water.

As he had thought, it is a quick motion—he had been right about the ease of it, frame light, lighter even—and the body is warm, blood coursing audibly underneath the skin alongside the distinctive thrum of a beating heart.

It would be easy enough to pull him further down then—body drowned and flesh devoured as his nature demands—but he doesn’t.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he feels soft lips press against his, tongue prodding and soon slipping into his mouth to carefully trace along the rows of teeth and his own tongue.

When Victor finally withdraws, tongue licking at his own lips, he speaks, words simple in form yet significant in meaning.

“Let me stay with you. Keep you company,” he says. “I won’t abandon you if you will have me. You have my word.”

Piers couldn’t quite help himself then. “And if you tire of me?”

“Then I will die,” he replies. “Simple as that.”

Victor tilts his head, hair tickling the underside of Piers’s chin and breath warm against his neck. “I won’t tire of you though.”

Overly certain and voice even, but he doesn’t expect anything else. Victor has always been odd.

Victor continues, each word soft against his neck, “Stay with me in return. That is all that I ask for.” His arms tighten slightly. “Promise.”

He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t deny him, not with the quiet heat of everything.

He only finds himself shifting, water splashing around them as his hand goes to Victor’s chin, gently tilting his head back.

Despite everything, Victor’s eyes are calm, self-assured and soft—brown akin to mud.

He couldn’t deny him.

Victor knows that. He knows that.

Thus, he kisses him, soft lips again meeting his own and now parting, _yes_ formed once more.

It’s against his nature certainly.

He should stop—he understands that—but he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not with the warmth of everything, words and touch binding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the sex scene is next chapter.
> 
> Though, I always like endings/stories that are just a bit off—horror cloaked in sweetness. As a result, I think both Victor and Piers can either be taken at face-value or not depending on what interpretation you want to use. It depends on how everything is interpreted, especially with the lore surrounding fairies and sirens (who are actually often depicted as bird women rather than as mermaids which was a later addition but that's another intentional choice to heighten one of the themes of this fic—perception alongside storytelling's inherently fluid yet paradoxically rigid nature). 
> 
> Alongside that, you have the legends of the Isles alongside its mythology which are rather varied depending on which area you're in (Ex. Tam Lin, Dullahans, etc.). It's rather varied and complex area of study that can't be explained in simplified terms, especially when you get more in-depth or add in the changes that happen with time and immigration/emigration (ex. folklore being brought over to the Americas which then leads to entirely different/"branching" stories).
> 
> But still, popular culture has the basic fairy as rather clever, with a entirely different moral system than other people, and very keen on words and truth. I think that could be ascribed to Victor and all the implications that brings while on Piers himself and the siren, sirens are often creatures that lure with their voice and there's a lot going on if you understand what roles fairies and sirens play in their respective legends. And how much damage a broken promise does in fairy lore alongside touch, food, and time. Or if you understand what happens to sirens in the myths and how that symbolically interweaves into this.
> 
> Though, then you have to consider what the characters' goals are as well. Loneliness and time are both implied with how Victor and Piers approach everything and in what they say.
> 
> That's another juxtaposition, fairies who use their words and cunning and sirens who use their voice and violence to achieve goals. There's a lot of juxtaposition going on in this fic alongside allusions, word choice, and so forth (such as with "action VS speech," "story VS reality," etc.).


	6. Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange boy that visits the shores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's the sex chapter. I was gonna post it on Christmas, but then I decided to bring in the New Year's with Piers and Victor both getting reamed and raunchy sex.

Slender fingers slide along Piers’s waist, trailing along the edge between hard scale and tender flesh, as soft thighs straddle him, groin rubbing against the scales, pre-cum and vaginal fluid smearing with every motion and drawing a shudder from Piers, noise only accentuated when a warm mouth engulfs a nipple, sucking enthusiastically with the barest nip of teeth.

With each motion, he feels Victor’s cock press against his stomach, slit dripping profusely, and his balls and leaking pussy slide along the scales, engorged clit and folds agitating him further.

He wants to hurry Victor up, tighten his grip on his hips and force him to, but he can’t, not with their differences in anatomy—he doesn’t want to accidentally, truly, hurt him, talons digging deeply into tender skin—and the dock itself, wood already creaking underneath their weight and movements.

It’s already awkward enough with everything else—he sitting and with Victor straddling, slim body bare of all clothes and grinding against him. Rather unfortunately, he isn’t quite as agile or dexterous on land as he is in water, lower half impeding movement rather than aiding. Thus, he must allow Victor to lead.

When a hand slides downward, fingers prodding at the scales until it stops at his slit, fingertips tracing at the vertical opening and dipping in just the slightest bit, just enough to tease, round nails scraping lightly at the walls of his sensitive insides.

“Here?” Victor murmurs, tongue flicking out to lick at his nipple. “Is this fine?”

Piers nods, chest shaking.

“Are you sure?” It’s teasing, overly so, when Victor withdraws his fingers, fingertips wet and nails once again sliding against his slit, touch warm. “You have to tell me.”

A particularly rough thrust against his stomach draws a gasp. “It’s fine, Victor.” A finger, the index, presses into his slit, twisting lightly before it delves deeper to press at the tapered tip of his uppermost cock, rubbing leisurely. “P-please.”

Victor doesn’t respond. Instead, Piers feels his tongue trail upward, saliva mixing with sweat and seawater and teeth nipping occasionally at the skin, before stopping at the side of his neck.

When the tip of his tongue presses against a gill, Pier’s grip tightens, action eliciting a gasp from Victor, cock and pussy leaking further, fluid dripping onto and dirtying his scales. Though, Victor doesn’t stop. Rather, Victor inserts another finger, digit sliding against the wet insides, as his other hand trails upward, nails brushing against Piers’s stomach and chest before stopping, nipple twisted lightly in-between thumb and forefinger and tugged roughly upon.

Victor’s tongue slides along his neck, tip tracing his gills, and Piers feels him shift, small, nearly hairless cock lining up against his slit and fingers spreading and occasionally pushing inward to rub at the tips of his cock, ministrations coaxing them further outward.

Another murmur, breath warm against his neck and the same teasing query as before, question met with a similar affirmation, _yes_ shaky as he feels another tug on his nipple, nails digging firmly into the nub with each pull, and Victor’s fingers delve deeper into his opening, each one gradually easing in up to and pass the knuckles.

When Victor stops, hand engulfed up to wrist, he’s panting, noise heightened when Victor moves his fingers to prod at the slit of his cocks, nails dipping slightly into the leaking openings, and at the soft, flexible spines covering the length.

It isn’t entirely comfortable—he feels his cocks straining against Victor’s hand in an attempt to emerge, every stroke and slight movement agitating him further—but he couldn’t say that he dislikes it entirely. Rather, it’s paradoxical, movements and fullness causing both pleasure and discomfort.

As Victor’s fingers move, massaging his cocks within their confines, his lips trail upward, pressing kisses against the skin before stopping at the uppermost gill, tongue once again pushing at the opening and action coaxing a gasp, pain and pleasure once again mixing.

Combined with the hand still inside of him and the cock and pussy grinding against his lower half, he isn’t particularly surprised that he cums, grip tightening on Victor’s hips—nails digging into soft flesh and drawing moans from them both—as his body shakes, orgasm spilling upon Victor’s palm and fingers and soon coating his wrist as it overflows, milky white droplets dripping down his sides and onto the wood of the dock.

Though, despite his orgasm, Victor doesn’t stop his ministrations or his rutting. Rather, they only increase in intensity—slim fingers pushing further in to wrap around his uppermost cock, hand tugging eagerly if haphazardly because of the tightness, wet tongue trailing back down to the collarbone before his teeth clamp downward, pale skin blooming purple, and dripping cock and pussy still rutting, movements enthusiastic as his hand’s.

With each tug on his nipple and cock, another shudder seizes him. He wants to thrust, cocks rutting into Victor’s hand or, more preferably, into a warm, clenching pussy and ass, cum leaking and thrusts met with similarly eager bouncing, noise interspersed with both moans and pained whimpering, a consequence of nails digging into sensitive skin.

Another harsh tug on his nipple, skin reddening, before Victor’s hand moves to his lowermost cock, forefinger rubbing at the slit, occasionally pushing inward into the hole and twisting, motion drawing a strangled moan, noise soon muffled by Victor’s lips, mouth having left his collarbone.

There’s a particular care that Victor takes in their kiss, tongue licking at his bottom lip with teeth nipping playfully, pulling upon the skin before releasing. Victor’s mouth soon moves upward, lips muttering a soft, simple command to lean down which he complies with—face soon peppered with a series of soft kisses, some wet, tongue peeking, and others closemouthed, searing in their briefness.

Warm and teasing in a way that makes him want to buck, and he almost does until he feels Victor’s hand slide downward and tighten, soft palm and fingers unbearable against his length and inner walls.

“Not yet,” Victor says, voice soft. To his thrill, he notes how Victor’s voice wavers, agitated and similarly breathy as his own. “Don’t be impatient.” With each syllable, Victor strokes his cock, taking care to rub the spines with his palm and fingertips, teasing in the slowness of everything. “I’ll let you fuck me later. Promise.”

Piers’s breath hitches at Victor’s words, noise not particularly helped by Victor’s hand, fingers curling slightly to rub at the barbs on his cock and knuckles caressing against his insides.

He’s full, almost painfully so with how his cocks are, aroused and pushing against Victor’s hand. Though, Victor doesn’t comment on his state, skin flushed and every slight shift causing the dock to creak, wood straining because of its age and their combined weight.

Instead, Victor merely presses another kiss against the tip of Piers’s nose before he continues upward, lips gently peppering kisses upon his flushed cheeks and eyelids before his tongue trails back downward to prod at Piers’s lips, spit coating already wet flesh, and readily accepted into a willing mouth.

Unlike their other activities, their kiss isn’t quite as fervent and hurried, not for a lack of interest and desire but for a worry of harm.

Despite Victor’s earlier reassurances—according to Victor, he would heal even if his tongue were bitten off in the excitement—Piers doesn’t particularly want to rush. Rather, he allows Victor to lead, tongue occasionally pushing against his and careful as to avoid nicking with his teeth. With each touch, his body trembles, impatient yet too concerned to hurry, and his grip tightens, fingers bruising the pale skin of Victor’s hips.

He doesn’t think Victor minds—he notes how careful Victor is, tongue tracing slowly along the rows of pointed teeth in familiar curiosity and sliding against his own—but he does.

When Victor’s tongue withdraws, he hears a brief reassurance, words initially drawing confusion, before Victor roughly presses upon his cock, hand twisting the length just the barest amount to draw a pained gasp and action provoking another orgasm, wet and messy as the last and noise squelching as Victor’s hand continues to move, digits stroking at both the length and his clenching, soaked walls.

Another light twist, cocks still spurting and knuckles rubbing against his walls, and he once again feels Victor’s tongue press against his mouth, lips murmuring a soft _please_ and plea stirring him further.

He doesn’t have to ask for the reason. They’ve known each other for long enough.

Instead, he parts his lips, tongue soon forcing itself into Victor’s mouth, saliva dripping and sliding wetly again the inside of his mouth—teeth, tongue, everything it could reach—before plunging deeper down his throat, action met with a muffled moan, a wetness on his scales, pussy and cock gushing in an orgasm, and another pull on his length, the uppermost one this time.

Victor pinches his nipple again, nails digging into the swollen nub and tugging in an attempt to urge him closer, before he tilts his head, deepening the kiss as his tongue slips into Piers’s mouth. Faintly, Piers notes the taste of blood, distinctly sweeter than a human’s and heady as wine.

He doesn’t quite mind the taste as much he should. Certainly, Victor’s blood has the slightest taste of metal to it—that’s familiar—but it isn’t the same, too unmistakable and too faint.

Another pinch, gentle this time, before Victor’s hands trail downward to grope at his chest, fingers tracing at the protruding ribs, skin thinly covering and undulating because of exertion.

When they separate from the kiss, Victor, much to his own pleasure, is breathy, panting, saliva and blood dripping from the corners of his lips. Though, he couldn’t say that he is any different, state similarly disheveled and only breath hitching once more when Victor shifts, already hardening cock grinding against his slit again and hand withdrawing slightly, fingers spreading and still inside of him.

“Can I fuck you first?” Piers groans as he feels Victor’s cock thrust playfully against his slit, flesh hot against his scales, and his fingers continue to move, spreading him further, pain and pleasure still intermingled. “Please?”

There’s a slight whine to Victor’s voice, noise arousing Piers further.

When Piers nods, Victor twists his hand before pushing it back in, knuckles pressing against the tips of his cocks and drawing another shudder.

“Use your voice.” Victor twists his fingers again, fingertips prodding at Piers’s cock. “You have to tell me.”

A gasp leaves Piers as he feels a finger press against his cock’s opening, digit inching in slowly and stretching the hole. “Pl-please, Victor.” A groan leaves him as Victor’s other hand trails upward to poke at his gills, nails slipping just the slightest bit into the opening. “Please…”

“Please what?” Victor thrusts against his slit again, pre-cum smearing, before he grinds downward, swollen, wet folds and clit rubbing teasingly against his dirty scales, grey speckled with white. “You have to tell me exactly what you want.”

“Pl-please.” Victor’s finger twists further in, stopping at the knuckle before it curls slightly. “Pl-please! Please fuck me! Please f-fuck my p-pussy!”

Piers flushes then, both embarrassment and agitation, but at the very least, Victor withdraws his finger, motion painfully, teasingly slow. Though, Victor doesn’t withdraw his hand entirely, cocks still straining against his palm.

He’s full, painfully so, every movement causing him to leak more, cum filling an already filled hole, when Victor speaks again, still coy.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, voice breathy, similarly agitated. He wouldn’t be able to resist for much longer, cock and pussy leaking profusely. “With my fingers?” Victor’s fingertips prod against Piers’s walls, causing his breath to hitch again. “Or…”

Piers couldn’t quite stand it much longer, and he doesn’t think Victor can either.

Everything is too much—the heat, the smell of salt and sex and blood, and even the wood beneath him, hard surface rubbing against his underside with every shift and entirely different from the soft flesh of Victor’s thighs.

“With your cock!” He’s loud, voice cracking, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I want you to fuck me like a dirty whore with your cock! B-breed me until I’m hoarse! Until I can’t sing anymore!”

At his word, Victor’s hand quickly withdraws, cum-soaked flesh leaving with a noisy _pop_ , and with one smooth motion, Victor sheathes himself fully, thrust drawing noise from the both of them as the head of Victor’s cock presses against his own, tapered tips leaking and straining.

Much like his hand, Victor’s cock isn’t all too big, more on the small side and almost entirely hairless, but his slit hadn’t been made for penetration, more a pseudo-pussy than a true one. Nonetheless, he finds himself clenching around Victor anyway, messy and wet and tight, a consequence of his own burgeoning cocks and the leftover cum.

“Was that so hard?” Piers is noisy, breath hitching, as Victor brings his hand to his lips, pink tongue flicking out to lick at his palm, cum drawn into his mouth and tasted. Victor soon shifts, raising himself slightly upward, cock still sheathed, before he brings his hand behind him, wet fingers then inserted into his own ass, digits scissoring and spreading. “Well?”

Piers doesn’t reply—too agitated. Instead, he bucks roughly, cocks meeting Victor’s with a wet _squelch_ and dock creaking beneath them.

Despite the moan his action coaxes from Victor, small body trembling as Piers’s nails dig deeper into his hips, Victor doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust like he wants. Rather, he only continues to finger himself, panting. His other hand glides upward to cup Piers’s cheek, fingers briefly moving to tuck a dark strand of hair behind his ear before returning to his cheek.

“I won’t breed your cunt until you answer,” Victor says. “Didn’t you want me to breed you? Breed your boycunt until you can’t speak? I thought that’s what you wanted?”

Another light thrust, cock head grinding teasingly against his own before it immediately stops.

“Well?” Victor asks again. He leans forward and presses a brief kiss against Piers’s collarbone, tongue licking at the purple bruising. “Tell me. Use your voice. Sirens value their voices, right?”

Another nod, and another thrust, cock grinding in the space in-between his, length brushing against spines and drawing a noise. “Y-yes.”

“Good.” Victor nods, pleased, as he stills his movements, fingers withdrawing from his ass and hands coming to rest on Piers’s own hips, touch light. “Now answer me.” A light thrust comes. “Was it hard? To tell me?”

“N-no.” He’s shaking, panting. “It w-wasn’t.”

Victor doesn’t reply. His grip only tightens on Piers’s hips before he places another wet kiss on Piers’s collarbone.

He almost begs again—he wants to be fucked so badly, slit and cocks abused and orgasm coming as a relief—but before he can, Victor thrusts forward, cock hitting once again in-between his cocks, barbs catching on Victor’s own length as he moves and coaxing moans from them both.

Victor withdraws, tip and length rubbing teasing against his seeping slit, before he quickly plunges back in, noise squelching as flesh meets flesh, balls roughly meeting scales. With each thrust, cock rubbing against his walls and at the heads of his own cocks, Victor’s grip tighten, nails steadily digging into his hips, ten purpling crescents marking his claim and pain drawing gasps and moans.

Naturally, Piers meets him with a similar eagerness, bucking in an attempt to form a halfway decent rhythm, cocks leaking and cum overflowing, white droplets spilling down his sides.

They aren’t quite successful, some thrusts too shallow and quick and others too deep and slow, but it isn’t unpleasurable.

He couldn’t call it that, not with the sensations—warm and full, soft against firm, and sensitive spines catching on flesh—and with Victor soon leaning forward, lips pressing against his in a request for a kiss and request readily accepted, tongues soon meeting again.

When his tongue once again forces itself down Victor’s throat, rubbing against and memorizing the walls, Victor lets out a pleased groan, noise muffled, and thrusts forward, motion particularly rough and cock head grinding against his.

Another thrust, deep and harsh and cock slit grinding against the tapered tip of his, before Piers tastes blood, sweet and cajoling in its flavor and flavor accompanied by another of his orgasms, wet and messy and loud. By the noise that vibrates around his tongue and the increased intensity of Victor’s motions, cock grinding harder against his, he assumes that some of his cum had entered Victor’s opening.

Piers feels a faint prick against his tongue—Victor’s teeth biting downward, nowhere near forceful enough to sever—before he feels a warmth squirt against his cocks and onto his scales, pussy and clit grinding downward in attempt to garner more friction amidst Victor’s own orgasm.

Though, despite their climaxes, they don’t stop rutting, cum coming to a trickle yet cocks still pressing together, rubbing. Faintly, he notes the slight pressure on his tongue, teeth nipping occasionally and playfully.

When they finally separate, mouths parting with a wet _pop_ , and when Victor’s cock finally withdraws, white cum following in waves, he almost expects Victor to present his cunt and ass there.

Victor has never been particularly patient when it comes to these matters.

However, much to his surprise, Victor doesn’t. Instead, Piers feels him shift, slavering pussy dragging against his scales before a small mouth presses against his slit, tongue pushing inward and licking, soon coming away with a dollop of cum.

“Later,” Victor murmurs, tongue flicking outward to trace the opening. “I’ll let you fuck me later.” Hs fingers insert themselves into the slit, stroking at the walls and spreading him wider. “Just let me clean you up first.”

Victor doesn’t wait for a reply, tongue delving inward alongside his fingers, and Piers doesn’t stop him. Instead, his hands only come to settle in Victor’s hair, dark nails tugging at the strands in an attempt to force him deeper.

Rather unfortunately, Victor’s tongue is nowhere near as long as his own, but what he lacks in length, he makes up in eagerness—fingers delving deeper and curling to rub at his walls, slim tongue enthusiastically lapping, and moans accentuating the sensations, noises vibrating.

When the tips of his cocks press against Victor’s cheek and lips, Victor doesn’t stop. Instead, he merely takes the lowermost tip into his mouth, sucking eagerly as his tongue licks at the slit. His other cock presses against Victor’s cheek, cum smearing into the skin and leaking onto his hair, dirtying the strands further.

He’s noisy when Victor takes his other cock in his hands, slim fingers unable to wrap entirely around it but motions still enthusiastic, nonetheless. His fingers slide up and down along the length, soft palm warm and wet against the bulging spines. Occasionally, his fingers press against the leaking tip, dipping into the hole and twisting gently.

Victor’s tongue swirls around the tip of his cock before he takes more into his mouth, movement causing Piers’s grip to tighten, pulling him further down—cock soon hitting the back of his throat and barbs catching against sensitive skin. With every inhale and exhale, he feels his cock’s barbs rub against Victor’s throat, drawing another noise from him.

A shudder leaves him as he feels Victor moan, noise muffled yet vibrations still carrying, and his grip tighten, small hands stroking around the length and fingertips playing with the spines, round nails occasionally flicking and rubbing at them.

As Piers pulls out, barbs catching on the skin before releasing, Victor moans, noise soon muffled again as he shoves his cock back in, tip hitting the back of his throat and causing his pussy and cock to leak more.

Hands tugging on Victor’s hair, he isn’t particularly gentle as he fucks Victor’s mouth, cock rutting into a small, impatient mouth, tongue lapping at the underside, as his other cock slides against Victor’s cheek, length still encircled by slender, groping fingers. Victor’s pussy and cock grind against his body, movements frantic.

Wet, messy, and warm—that is how it is when he cums again, hot fluid squirting into a waiting, eagerly swallowing mouth and onto sweaty hair and skin, white droplets dripping down Victor’s face and chin. Even when it spills from Victor’s mouth and his own cock withdraws, Victor doesn’t stop. Instead, his tongue only moves to lick at the lengths, cum greedily licked up and swallowed, as his hand continues to stroke, fingers playing with the tapered tip.

When Victor finally finishes, cocks coated thoroughly in saliva, he shifts again, hands and mouth leaving.

Panting and too impatient to wait, Victor lifts himself and aligns his dripping cunt and ass with Piers’s cocks, tips just barely inside and entirely too teasing in Piers’s opinion. He doesn’t want to wait, but Victor is the one leading tonight.

Despite Victor’s obvious impatience—pussy and ass rubbing lightly against his cocks, openings dripping, thighs quivering, and small cock hardening once more—he doesn’t move.

Instead, his hands grab at Piers’s wrists, guiding them to settle upon his narrow hips, pale skin marred by ten markings, punctures rather than his own crescents.

He wants to move—it’s warm, intoxicating and overly so—but he can’t.

Victor is the one leading tonight.

When Victor speaks, voice agitated and cracking slightly, it isn’t a request. It’s a command, a simple and plain _fuck me_.

Naturally, he complies, nails digging into skin—points meeting bone—and hands pulling him downward, cocks bottoming out with a noisy _squelch_ and Victor’s cries, both pained and pleased, and lengths distending his stomach.

Stomach bulging because of the cocks inside of him, Victor’s eyes are watering when he speaks, voice high and cracking in its repetitious command.

“Fuck me.”

Simple and plain in meaning, but it’s a command that he readily carries out, cocks moving against Victor’s clenching insides, spit and cum mixing with every movement, barbs catching because of the tightness rather than by natural design and drawing noise from them both.

It’s tight even as the girths of his cocks stretch Victor’s cunt and ass, pussy drooling as he squirts once more and orgasm coming, contributing to their already dirty states.

Though, Victor doesn’t beg, not verbally anyhow. Instead, his hands move to Piers’s shoulders, grabbing at the hair and tugging, urging him to quicken his pace. With each thrust, Victor eagerly meets him, small body bouncing eagerly as soft thighs meet firm scale, sound audible.

With another harsh tug, Victor pulls Piers’s head forward, lips soon pushing against his in a messy, noisy kiss. His tongue slips down Victor’s throat much to his pleasure, bouncing increasing in intensity with every passing moment.

Even when Piers cums, cocks still sheathed and orgasm drenching Victor’s cunt and ass further, fluid overflowing onto the dock, Victor doesn’t stop moving, hands still clenching tightly at Piers’s hair and stomach bulging because of the cum.

His movements are erratic, impeded by the barbs inside of him, the hands on his hips, and his own swollen stomach, cum audibly sloshing, but Victor doesn’t still his motions even when his cunt and ass clench, cum soon spraying onto Piers’s cocks and their bodies.

When they separate once more, lips swollen, they’re both panting—trembling and full.

Victor is the first to shift, lifting himself up and off Piers’s cocks with some difficulty and shaky hands, cum gushing out from a gaping cunt and ass. When Victor leans forward then, Piers almost expects another kiss—Victor always liked to kiss when they finish, closemouthed and deceptively chaste—but it doesn’t come.

Instead, a hand presses against his chest gently, urging him onto his back, and movement soon followed by a request.

“Can you clean me up?” Victor’s wet cunt slides against his body again, noise lewd alongside the sloshing of cum and creaking wood. “Please?”

Thankfully, Victor doesn’t comment when he nods, eagerness apparent. He’s too impatient for that at this point.

Another gentle push on his chest, and Piers complies, back meeting dock as Victor soon moves, readjusting his position, knees soon straddling his head—cock dangling in front of Piers’s lips—and mouth hovering just above Piers’s cocks, breath warming them. With each breath and movement, Victor’s swollen stomach brushes against Piers’s chest, stirring them both further into a frenzy of noise and touch.

When Victor’s mouth presses a kiss against the head of the uppermost cock, mouth soon swallowing it once more, Piers moves, tongue plunging first into Victor’s ass, tongue delving deeper, swirling and probing. With each thrust of his tongue and tremble of Victor’s body, a bit of his own salty cum drips out, splattering onto his face.

His palm presses against Victor’s cunt, rubbing against the light pink folds and action eliciting a vibrating moan around his cock, noise soon returned with one of his own as Victor’s hand wraps around the other one, fingers once again playing with the barbs—soft fingertips running up and down along the bumps and occasionally pushing against them, nails digging in slightly.

A groan leaves Piers as he feels Victor’s teeth press downward on his cock, motion slight and grazing, just the barest hint of pain.

As his tongue probes deeper into Victor, his free hand moves to spread Victor’s wet folds, careful as to avoid puncturing the sensitive flesh with his nails and fingertips soon rubbing gently against the swollen clit. At his actions, another noise leaves Victor, hum vibrating around his cock and soon increasing in intensity as Piers’s tongue probes deeper into his ass, tip finally meeting prostate.

Victor’s body shakes, chest heaving and stomach sliding against Piers’s nipples, as his tongue thrusts again at his prostate and as he takes Victor’s clit carefully in-between his thumb and forefinger. When he pinches it with the pads of his fingers, pulling slightly, Victor screams, sound pulsing against his cock as his grip tighten in response, action drawing a noise of Piers.

Another tremble, ass thrusting into his face in an attempt to force his tongue deeper before Victor cums again, clenching around his tongue and pussy squirting fluid, a mixture of his own and Victor’s cum, onto his chin and neck.

Though, even when Victor’s orgasm subsides, they don’t stop, still too excited.

Instead, his hands slide to grip at Victor’s thighs, forcing them to spread further and, as his tongue withdraws from his ass, spit and cum dripping, and trails along the sensitive flesh of Victor’s groin. Pulling him closer, body nearly sitting on his face, he licks along Victor’s inner thighs and his balls, tongue soon moving to wrap around the small cock and tip pushing into the slit.

He wants to take Victor into his mouth entirely, but he couldn’t, not with the rows of jagged teeth there.

Thus, he settles for this, tongue wrapped around and probing slightly into the cock’s slit, cum salty with a hint of sweetness. At the very least, Victor likes it well enough, more than enough even by the way his body trembles, noisy.

When he cums, tapered cocks squirting into Victor’s swallowing mouth and onto his face and hair again, Victor only moans, fingers still clumsily stroking at the tip and nails scraping roughly along the turgid, spined flesh.

Another thrust comes, ass and cunt rubbing impatiently against his face, before his tongue loosens, sliding downward to flick and lick at Victor’s clit and folds, saliva and cum dripping onto his tongue as it slides against his cunt.

It’s teasing—he knows that by the way Victor’s thrusts intensify, impatience obvious and balls grinding against his chin—but he couldn’t quite help himself.

He thinks it fair, especially with Victor’s earlier playfulness.

Though, it isn’t long before he concedes. Much like Victor and with the states that they’re in, he’s too impatient to tease. He doesn’t have the energy to tease.

He wants another release too badly to tease.

His tongue gives one final flick against Victor’s clit, wrapping briefly around the sensitive flesh, before it forces itself into his cunt, motion met with a high whine and more shaking, body enthusiastically bucking against his tongue in an attempt to force it deeper.

Salty and with a hint of sweetness—that is how Victor tastes as his lips press against Victor’s pussy, tongue fully buried inside of him, squirming and stroking small circles against his insides, and careful as to avoid nicking with his teeth.

Tongue probing deeper, tip soon pressing against Victor’s womb, he feels Victor buck once more before his breath hitches, cock having been taken entirely into Victor’s mouth, head soon hitting the back of his throat once more, tightness pleasant against his length. Because of the size, saliva drips from Victor’s lips and onto his body.

Their motions are frenzied at this point—warm tongues sliding against sensitive flesh; bodies pressed tightly against one another, bucking, and distance only decreased further when Piers’s grip tightens, dark handprints forming on Victor’s thighs, pulling him down entirely onto his face; and everything entirely too wet, cum mixing with sweat and spit and seawater.

He doesn’t mind of course—he wouldn’t do this otherwise—and he’s certain that Victor is the same.

They’re both too eager for it just to be simply pretense, and they’ve known each other for long enough anyhow to know that it isn’t.

Moreover, they’ve been together for too long for that.

When they cum, Piers first this time and soon followed by Victor, their bodies are still moving, frantic despite everything—hands firmly griping at or stroking at soft flesh and smooth scale, both equally dirtied and stained, sweat and cum dripping onto the wood, and bodies writhing against one another.

Legs shaking slightly to loosen Piers’s grip and tongue soon leaving his gaping pussy, cum following in a cascade onto his mouth and chin, Victor separates first, noises wet, panting and breathy, as he rolls over and off of Piers.

Another wet _plop_ , cum gushing further onto the dock, before Piers speaks, breaking the silence first.

“So,” he asks, breath still uneven, “have you’ve tired of me yet?”

The dock creaks as Victor turns, facing him.

“I told you,” he says, frowning. “I’m not going to tire of you.” Another creak as he shifts, drawing closer. “I’ve told you the same thing every time that you’ve asked for years, centuries even. We don’t break our promises.”

Then,” Piers continues, “can you kiss me?”

It’s teasing—he had been wrong earlier about his lack of energy for playfulness—but he couldn’t help himself, not with the way Victor’s mouth twists at his question, frown not truly annoyed yet desiring to keep up the pretense of irritation.

At the very least, Victor complies, face leaning over his and lips soon meeting his in a kiss, closemouthed and chaste—overly sweet.

He doesn’t mind the taste, familiar as it is, and he doesn’t mind the way Victor scoots closer to him, body soon drawn into an embrace.

Naturally, he doesn’t mind everything—the closeness, the touch, and the trust. It’s against his nature to do anything he dislikes just as it is for Victor.

They’re rather alike in that aspect, paradoxical as it is.

Rather, everything is familiar and comforting, routine having spanned for years.

It’s familiar and reassuring, sweet in every aspect and aspects natural as breathing.

It—everything—is second nature.

More than anything, it’s warm.

Comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be making an author's notes chapter later on, but for now, this is the final chapter. 
> 
> Honestly, Intersex sex has been on my "to-do" list for such a long time, but it's just that I couldn't figure out what to tag it as (for a variety of reasons such as realism, as much as realism can play in a work with such a setting anyhow since the intersex part isn't "medically accurate"), and I just eventually settled on intersex.
> 
> I also decided on spines because why not? Everyone does knots, and I already have a few knot fics, so spines it is. And this is a "quasi-bonus" chapter in the sense that while it does add to characterization and plot, I also wanted to have fun with it hence why there's some terms like "boycunt" in it.


	7. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange boy that visits the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the author's notes chapter. This chapter is a partial explanation of story choices and ideas. It is not every single explanation, however. Please note that there may be grammatical errors as this is just an author's notes chapter and not formal writing. You can also still use your own interpretations if you wish. I just wanted to give my own personal explanations.

Originally, I began this fic on the simple desire for Piers and Victor to have really raunchy and awful (as in, amateur) sex, and I actually went through multiple concepts for it. The original idea for this fic was that Piers was a siren and Victor was a forlorn master’s degree student (English major) visiting town with his friends—Bede, Marnie, Hop, and Allister—on winter break. They rent a seaside cabin, and Victor ends up going for a midnight walk, and he ends up drawn to the singing near the cliffs. And it goes from there.

The second version I eventually trashed was one where Victor lives by the shore with his mother, and he and Piers begin an odd friendship based on exchange—sea shells for chocolate and conversation for conversation. Every section would have been a different year and meeting. It would ended with Victor going off to university and asking Piers to wait for him to return. There would have been awkward sex in a bathtub.

I eventually scrapped both versions because I just couldn’t find the motivation for them, and I also thought it was too “simple” of a premise because monster/human is a rather common idea nowadays (especially with Guillermo del Toro around), so I thought I should change it up a bit. Though perhaps I’ll revisit them one day.

Eventually, I settled on Siren!Piers (because that was the original concept) and Fae!Victor since both creatures feature prominently in popular culture and in their own respective regions. Sirens are one of the most well-known creatures in Greek Mythology after all, and Fairies are incredibly common in the Isles. Furthermore, I already have stories where one is human and the other is the beast (Piers in _T_ _he Year King_ and Victor in _Claudius Descending_ as monsters), so I thought it would be fun if they were both monsters this time. I like "subtle" monsters usually, and it reflects in this work I think.

Both also act as another means of creating a “link” between them—foils. Piers acts as the “monster who is too human-like,” and Victor is the “human-like boy who is too much like a monster.” They differ in age as well alongside the obvious feature of appearance and a few other characteristics. However, both characters are similar in the sense that they are searching for something to combat loneliness as well as searching for a purpose in a changed world.

They’re both creatures that rely on their voice to lure unsuspecting travelers to their doom even if the method is different. Words and violence to words and promises.

Piers approaches the world through a view of hesitation and paradoxical certainty. He frequently talks about how the world _is_ and how he _is_ , and yet, his actions often go against his own stated beliefs. He is the one who encourages Marnie to leave and explore the world, he is the one who doesn’t kill people and eat them (which Victor does mention), and he is the one who chooses to let Victor live. Their interactions are often based on the idea of "mutual understanding (of sorts)."

In comparison, Victor’s own lore draws from an almost “Frankenstein’d” assortment of fairy lore since fairies tend to vary by region, storyteller, and scholarly sources. To keep it simple, I decided to draw a bit from Robert Kirk’s works, Katherine Briggs’s works, medieval stories alongside the more contemporary variations and takes ( _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ , _Prose Merlin_ , Christina Rossetti’s _Goblin Market_ , and the more contemporary versions of Arthurian legends), and even simple popular culture.

I actually had a little section that I created on this setting’s history, including fairy lore, to keep everything in line. Though, I won’t post the entire thing since it would take up too much space. Though, essentially, Fairies abide by the idea of promises and “exact words” as they do in stories, and they operate on an entirely different spectrum of “right and wrong” to keep it simple.

The title actually comes from a “combination” of Greek mythology and Arthurian legend. _Nostos_ is a prominent theme in Greek mythology, and it is the “return to home” while Merle means “blackbird” and draws to mind the figure of Merlin.

To begin, _Nostos_ is a theme that you can find in many Greek myths and stories (Odyssey as the most prominent example), and it is the physical and mental return home alongside the idea of “becoming” yourself once more. In the _Odyssey_ , Pallas Athena often chides Odysseus for his weakness and urges him to take up his role of king once more. The order of the household must be kept, and _Nostos_ is about identity as much as it is about the "return to home."

Why should Odysseus simply give up when he has lost so much and when he has done so much? He is a man of “many turns,” and he is a complicated character who embodies the classical idea of heroics.

Here, the idea of home is a metaphorical one. The shores that Piers resides by are no longer home to him (and he laments about it enough), but he can’t leave. Piers is a character defined by both hesitance and certainty. He can’t leave because it is where he belongs, yet he also understands that, at the beginning of the story, there is nothing left there for him anymore. He does urge Marnie to leave when she wants to after all.

The shores, these particular shores, are where he belongs and where he has stayed for millennia.

In comparison, Victor has left his given home, the place where fairies reside, because it is no longer home. Where Piers stays out of obligation and nature, Victor rejects everything that he _should be_ , yet in his attempts, he is as the stories say. He is the wanderer who appears at the doorsteps of someone’s home and makes a request. His words are often more than they seem, and he acts in a way that often “tests” Piers for who he is (look at how Victor approaches Piers in their interactions). He’s almost the archetypical fairy despite his insistence on change.

It is in these actions that he returns “life” to Piers. In a sense, Victor is the “Merlin” who is undone by desire, and Piers acts a Nimue figure. Though, Victor isn’t physically trapped in a tree or under a rock. He’s simply “bound” to someone now. His word is law, and he must obey them. It is the death of his freedom to bind himself to someone. Victor is the "blackbird" who can no longer migrate or fly away at the slightest hint of boredom. When he offers himself, it is very much a new experience and a chance that he takes based on what he understands of Piers and who he is. It is this "final act," this "death," that allows a rebirth. Similarly, Piers has Victor's name and his life (explicitly offered up), and he acts according to what he knows of Victor. It is in that chance, the act of sparing, that allows Piers to begin living once again.

Mythology also plays a part on Piers’s end as well. The bird-like Sirens, in arguably their most popular legend, threw themselves into the water after someone escaped their song, and they drowned. Here, Victor’s “escape” from Piers’s song represents both the end and the beginning. By escaping his song, Victor has “destroyed” the last vestiges of Piers’s old identity—the song that he prides himself on and of which he mentions rather frequently. However, it is through both of their symbolic deaths that they find a rebirth in the modern world and a place to belong.

It is here that Victor is finally truthful (as much as he can be anyhow) and when Piers truly takes on the role of the proper host, a role that he would rarely take as a Siren. Though, Victor is running on an entirely different moral system, so I think some of his actions can be seen as morally ambiguous depending on interpretation.

As a side note, Piers being a mermaid is intentional rather than a bird monster is intentional. Stories often change over time depending on the storyteller, and the figure of the siren is no different. They became conflated with mermaids. That and I also wanted them to chat on a dock.

I also chose to make Piers actually monstrous (the scales, the rows of teeth, the inhumanly long tongue, the hemipenes, etc.) because I get kind of disappointed when I’m promised monster sex, and it’s just essentially a person in a Halloween costume honestly…I actually toned it down for everyone…

Greek hospitality further plays a prominent role in this story as hospitality is a major theme in Greek mythology. It is one of the things that starts the Trojan War (stealing someone’s wife while you’re a guest is badly looked upon for obvious reasons), drives much of the conflict and climax of the _Odyssey,_ and such things as the figure of Zeus Xenios. Often as a host, people are expected to cloth and feed the guest before asking them questions, entertain them, and provide gifts. In return, the guest does not overstay or over-burden their host, provides news and tales of the world, and help out around the home. Respect between the guest and host are enormous deals.

Fairy hospitality, as defined in this story, is rather different in some aspects. The fairy provides food to the recipient first. However, the recipient must split the food and return a halve to the fairy in an act of respect. Fairies are rather arrogant in some of their tales, so I thought it would be fun to flip ideas. It is the fairy who eats first, and the act of willingly eating second is a sign of respect. To take the food first without sharing or simply eating first without permission is seen as a slight. Throughout the story, there’s bits and pieces of the idea of fairy respect thrown in. It’s in how Victor reacts to everything. There’s an idea of exchanges present throughout the story.

They don’t offer names either and that is part of where Victor’s attempts to be different comes from. It is about mutual respect and about power.

Colors also play a part in this story. There’s the obvious color symbolism in what white means (purity, lack of change, etc.) and what it means when the color is disturbed (in the sex scene for example). There’s plenty of color symbolism in this story. Some are related to the traditional ideas while others are specific to this story.

On the sex scene, I thought it would be fun if I revisited fisting since I didn’t get to do as much as I wanted in the Grimsley/Scottie story I did a few months ago, and I think this is probably one of the few times I will be able to write a handjob combined with fisting as it is in this fic, and I got tired of a lot of sex scenes just being penetration and “just” the standard blowjob and/or handjob.

I originally didn’t plan to have Victor be intersex as well since I couldn’t figure out what the correct and respectful tag would be as intersex isn’t portrayed as it is in real life in this story. I eventually just settled on intersex since I have been considering it for little under a year, and I got tired of thinking.

I just wanted Piers and Victor to have raunchy sex on a dock and for Victor to be in control. Symbolically, the sex scene does act as a means of progress for their characters _and_ as a way to be horny. I always hate when people assume sex scenes can’t be _both_ horny and necessary/useful for the story. And make it really horny and kind of out there/catered specifically to my tastes since I like to write what I enjoy on here. I also like heavy(ish) plot _with_ porn so...

I did tone it down though. Less consensual cannibalism, less fingers inside someone’s neck gills, less fingers and tongue being bitten off in a sexual frenzy, and less description about eating flesh and general teeth things. Like, they were planned and meant to serve symbolic purposes, but I also don’t want to scare off everyone left considering what the sex scene already ended up as. There was also a cut scene of both of them reverting back to their native languages.

Stories also play a huge part in this one. After a period of time, most people don’t really change and after years of hearing the same stories about yourself, it is rather hard to find the motivation to be anything else. The idea of perception and interpretation is heavily prominent in this one.

As a side note, Peony and Peonia can potentially still be alive if you want them to be at the end of the story. I actually had them noted down as magicians (of the magical sort) to fit in with the whole urban fantasy/”Age of Humans” setting I have. Piers and Victor aren’t the only non-humans roaming around, and it would give another layer to why the two interact with Victor outside of just kindness. Similarly, I also cut references to Raihan (dragon living at a very specific mountain in China) and Leon (demon roaming about New York City) alongside a few others. But still, that’s if you want my “outside” input on the matter. It doesn’t really matter if you want to consider them magical or just plain ol’ humans.

Victor's also the older one between them as another note, and other places I considered for the sex scene were the beach (I couldn't take it seriously because of the infamous " I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere. Not like here. Here everything is soft and smooth." line from _Star Wars_. I would not have been able to resist making a reference and turning everything into a tongue-in-cheek parody like I've done with _Untitled Pancham Game_ which is currently unpublished as of this posting), a bathtub (blood in the bathwater when someone hits their head against the faucet but the sex continues, and it's kind of really gross afterwards when the bath drains), and in the water (salty and more blood in the water).

Greece was the chosen setting because I thought it would be fun to do. While Eraseia is a fictional town, I did actually choose the location based on an actual map and on where the (approximate) location of Ithaca and Odysseus's line of travel is supposed to be. Though, I wouldn't say it's located where Ithaca is at all. It's just based on where his travels are supposed to be and near a certain event in the _Odyssey_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I want to do next, but I'm thinking about doing Green (the rival)/Male!Team Rocket Grunt and make it shmoopy/incredibly awkward with kid crushes and awkwardness and maybe consensual anal and enthusiastic bouncing (of the sexual sort). I also want to do adult (Sun and Moon)!Green/Male!Team Rocket Grunt where the Grunt gets railed consensually against a bedframe and DP'd with a dildo and dick, but I have to do the set-up first so...already have a name for the Grunt as well since I can't just call him "Team Rocket Grunt" the entire time...
> 
> Or that guro DNKB I keep talking about but never actually continue and finish. Or leash play/puppy play BDSM with a muzzle Piers/Victor.
> 
> Though doing a fic set in the actual Pokemon universe is actually rather annoying because of formatting arguments and arguments over fanon (Arceus as god for example) and canon. No one can agree if Pokemon species names should be capitalized at all times and if professions like Trainer should be as well alongside items and berries. Personally, I follow the formatting of the games and official media since it looks more familiar and normal for me for this fandom. I understand grammar (I actually own an official MLA style textbook tbh), and I like grammar unironically, but I also like to do what is familiar to me. Like...I use my own headcanons nowadays too...

**Author's Note:**

> I actually had a lot of ideas for this setting such as "Victor visiting with his friends on a summer break," "Fisherman," and so forth though I settled on this since the concept is more intriguing for me.
> 
> The sex scene was really fun to write though not gonna lie. Now back to the grind...I have fic ideas...
> 
> I want so badly to post the sex scene on Christmas, but oh well...gotta space out updates...


End file.
